


As Is Tradition

by zuotian



Series: Kenman Week 2019 [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild Blood, Oblique References to Cartman's Extended Family, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Thanksgiving should’ve been Cartman’s favorite holiday. Food and football prefaced by a walk around the block getting stoned off shitty Nebraskan weed sounded nice on paper, but his extended relatives always managed to ruin it. That being said, he’d rather Aunt Lisa suffocate him with her massive boobs in a hug to the death than suffer this.
Relationships: Eric Cartman & Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick
Series: Kenman Week 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558291
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	As Is Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> KENMAN WEEK 2019 LET'S GO!!!! 
> 
> i am apparently fill the prompts out of order this year, lol. here's the fic for day 2: food. 
> 
> heed the tags!!!

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Thanksgiving should’ve been Cartman’s favorite holiday. Food and football prefaced by a walk around the block getting stoned off shitty Nebraskan weed sounded nice on paper, but his extended relatives always managed to ruin it. That being said, he’d rather Aunt Lisa suffocate him with her massive boobs in a hug to the death than suffer _this_.

“I still can’t believe we got partnered up,” Butters said for the fifth time that day. “When I saw your name on the list of volunteers I thought somebody made a typo.”

“I’m not volunteering,” Cartman insisted once again. “Community service is part of my _court_ order.”

“Oh, it’s the same difference,” Butters dismissed.

Another poor sack of shit sidled into line. Skinny, hunchbacked, with a tweaker twitch.

“Meth head, ten ‘o clock,” Cartman muttered.

“How do you know?” Butters bent over his crockpot of green beans to get a better look. “You shouldn’t assume stuff like that.”

“The evidence is all there. He’s wearing a trench coat, for Christ’s sake. I’d bet my left ass cheek.”

“I don’t want anything to do with your ass!”

Cartman ladled a preemptive helping of mashed potatoes. “Your loss.”

The guy arrived, white-knuckled in fingerless gloves

“Hey,” Cartman nodded. “Taters?”

“Uh, yeah,” the guy said.

Cartman dolloped some onto his tray. “Merry Christmas.”

Butters ushered him forward, ready with a spoonful of green beans. “My friend meant to say Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Right.” The guy’s bloodshot eyes bounced between them, two sweater-trussed boys of opposite countenance. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!”

“Have a good Kwanzaa.”

Butters’ megawatt smile disappeared the second he turned to Cartman.

“What?” Cartman asked.

“Would it kill you to be _nice_?”

Cartman plopped his ladle back into the vat of potatoes. “It’d _kill_ me to take any of this crap serious. We’re only feeding junkies so they can live to see another high. It’s a waste of money. A nd food. A nd _my_ time.”

Butters’ face burned as red as his turtleneck. “It is _not_ a waste of time! Everybody here ain’t a drug addict. And even if they were—it’s the _Christian_ thing to do. Maybe you need a little Jesus in your life!”

“I don’t want Jesus in my life,” Cartman said. “I don’t want to be _here_. I’m only here because a _judge_ made me.”

“Either way, I think it’ll do you some good. You need to humble yourself.”

“ _Humble_ myself—” Cartman tossed his hands up and paced away, only to be turned back by one of the community center’s event organizers.

Butters didn’t miss a beat, waiting with more to say. “It’s the holiday season, Eric. A season of joy and charity—”

Blah, blah, blah.

Kitchen workers constantly restocked the buffet, but Cartman never caught a glimpse of his mom. She was in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Or blowing some dude in the walk-in. Either scenario was equally possible but Cartman could only bet his left ass cheek on one. He hoped it was Stephen Stotch out of spite, then realized that could lead to him and Butters becoming step-brothers and rescinded his wager.

No, his mom was peeling potatoes, while he was getting lectured by Butters Saint Stotch and suffering penance for an _alleged_ crime. Happy fucking Hanukkah.

“Uhhh—Eric?”

Cartman blinked out of autopilot and turned to find Butters looking at him nervously. “Yeah?”

“Do you—um— If you need to pee, it’s okay! I’ll watch your potatoes.”

Cartman frowned. “Why are you invested in my bladder all of a sudden?”

“I’m just _saying_ , if you need to—”

“Well I _don’t_.”

“Okay, then, uh—!”

Butters yeeted his spoon to the floor; Cartman scuttled backwards to spare his corduroys from the spray of green beans.

“What the fuck! Do you have fucking Parkinson’s?!”

“M-my bad! Could you get me a new spoon?”

“No, fuck you! Get it yourself, Leopold.”

“But—” Butters leaned inward. “I _know_ a guy in the kitchen. The guy who keeps bringing the rolls out. He’s in my youth group. He’ll give ya a _marijuana_ cigarette if you ask nice.”

“It’s called a joint, retard.” Cartman was actually salivating at the thought—it’d certainly make the evening bearable, but— “Why do you want me gone all of a sudden?”

Butter shook his head so fast his choppy bangs blurred. “I don’t! I’m just tryin’a be considerate, is all—”

Cartman snatched the spoon off the floor and wielded it. “Tell me now, or I’ll shove this up your ass!”

“Okay, okay, okay—” Butters grasped Cartman’s brandished fist with both hands and started prattling in a whisper, at a mile a minute: “ _Kenny’s_ here. His whole family’s here. They come _every_ year. Nobody knows but me, cuz I’m the only one who’s here either. But now _you’re_ here and you can’t _say_ nothing mean or it’ll make Kenny feel real bad and that’s why I wanted you to go to the kitchen so you wouldn’t see him and they’re almost comin’ and I gotta go get a spoon but don’t you do anything stupid—”

“Butters! Just—shut the hell up!”

Butters shut the hell up. Cartman retracted his spoon-fisted hand and looked across the sea of degenerates to find the biggest degenerate of them all.

The whole wind-blown McCormick clan lingered at the front door. Kenny’s dad took charge and lumbered dick first towards the buffet, mullet flouncing out of an old ball cap and bottom lip bulging with a pouch of chew. Kenny’s mom followed close behind all mousy and discontent, _her_ bottom lip bulging with a cut best left unexplained. The kids trundled after, a row of successively uglier ducklings gussied up in Salvation Army’s finest threads.

Kenny was here alright. Cartman couldn’t help comparing him to the meth head from earlier, a mental side-by-side. A game of spot the difference, of which there were _not_ many. He took the rear, his parka unzipped to reveal a cable knit sweater that appeared to be two sizes too big; even at this distance Cartman could discern an AC/DC t-shirt peeking out from the loosened collar. His hood was pulled up, as is tradition, hiding most of his scabby face and greasy hair from view.

Cartman left before Butters could get a Bible verse in edgewise. He waved Butters’ contaminated spoon at the event organizers, but the aproned old ladies brigading the kitchen were not so easily persuaded.

“I need a _spoon_ ,” he told a crone who looked like her name was Bethel or something. _Bethlehem_ , maybe. She didn’t buy it, so he switched to a new approach vying for another female’s opinion. “My _mother’s_ back there, you can ask her. Liane Cartman.”

His mother in fact passed by as he was saying this, and stopped in her potato-laden tracks. “Poopsiekins? What are you doing all the way here, hon?”

He spoke around Bethel’s perm. “Butters had an epileptic fit. I need a new spoon.”

“Oh, is that all?” Liane tossed her head. “Come on, I’ll grab one.”

Cartman squeezed past the council of Thanksgiving witches into the heat of the kitchen. “What a cunt!”

“Hush, sweetheart,” his mother reprimanded. “You’re supposed to be on good behavior.”

He made an noncommittal grunt, then burdened himself with one of the bags of potatoes she’d been carrying to prove what a helpful little boy he was. “How’s it back here?”

“I feel guilty we couldn’t make it to Nebraska, but it’s nice to help out.”

“Yeah, I wish I was getting dutch oven’d by Fred right now, too.”

He hoisted the bag onto a metal table Liane had apparently claimed as potato headquarters. Butters’ mom was off a ways boiling them. It was a real beautiful joint effort. Speaking of…

“Y’think I could nab a roll, or two?”

Liane shot a disapproving glance. “Poopsiekins...”

“I haven’t ate all day,” he reminded her, which was true. “I’m famished. My blood sugar’s gonna drop.”

She gave him a fresh spoon and patted his cheek. “Anthony’s been making them. He’s right over there.”

Cartman looked to where she pointed. Anthony was the antithesis of any well-to-do youth group. Kind of goth, but not in a faggy way. He slammed an oven shut and wiped his hands on a flour dusted band t-shirt, caught Cartman watching him when he tucked his long black hair behind his ear.

Cartman’s face flushed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Don’t dillydally!”

He strode towards Anthony before it got any worse. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Anthony said. “What do you want?”

“Butters told me you have pot.” Anthony lifted a bemused eyebrow. “Leopold,” Cartman rectified. “Stotch. He’s, like, I don’t know. Jesus’ number one fan. You’re in youth group together?”

“Ohh, yeah. That kid.” Anthony smirked, and it made Cartman feel things. “Are you his friend or something?”

“No,” Cartman said. “God, no. I’m here for community service. It was this or juvie.”

“For real? What’d you do?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Huh. Well. Y’got cash?”

Cartman rifled his corduroys. He came up with a crumpled ten dollar bill and half a menthol cigarette stolen from Liane. “Will this do?”

“It’s something,” Anthony acquiesced. “C’mon.”

He lead Cartman out of the kitchen’s backdoor, which he propped with a cinderblock. They escaped the cloud of turkey scented warmth and entered the cold afternoon air. He sparked up, inhaled until the tip was established molten, and Cartman commenced the trade. Loose tobacco fell between their hands. He tried not to read into how their fingertips brushed.

Anthony lit the cigarette. Cartman sucked down on the joint, fleshy cheeks hollowed as much as his fat would allow. They didn’t say anything, but Anthony was giving him the eye, anyway. Cartman knew what _that_ eye meant, too.

He played it cool, though. “So you’re in _youth_ group?”

Anthony snorted, disengaged his gaze. “Just so my parents don’t wig out.”

“That’s why I’m here, too. It’s practically indentured servitude.”

“Practically. Y’got that ten bucks?”

“Yeah.” Cartman handed it over.

Anthony slipped it into his pocket. “Y’got anything else?”

Cartman took another drag to cool his head. “No.”

“Ten bucks and half a smoke is pretty cheap for a whole joint,” Anthony said. “That’s Tegridy, too.”

“I can taste it.”

Anthony tongued his lip, flicked the cigarette, looked back again. “Ever taste dick?”

“My cousin’s,” Cartman said.

The answer threw Anthony off his game. “Nuh-uh.”

“My whole family’s from the middle of Nebraska. My uncle was Charlie Manson’s prison bitch.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me,” Anthony guessed.

“Maybe.” Cartman stepped closer. “Maybe not.”

Anthony looked down his nose. “You’re kinda weird.”

“Do you wanna blowjob, or not?”

“Uhh—yes?”

The deluge of economic refuges had thinned out by the time he returned indoors. The knees of his corduroys were wet and imprinted with loose gravel, his ears pink from the cold, his eyes, well, a little methed out.

Butters nearly jumped through the roof when he tapped his shoulder. “Eric! Holy cow!”

Feeling generous, Cartman handed him a roll. “Here. It’s a Thanksgiving miracle.”

Butters accepted the gift with trepidation. “So...you met Anthony?”

“Yup.” Cartman broke his own bread and tapped Butters’ knuckles. “God bless.”

“Eric—I think you’re _high_.”

“That was the point. Where’s Kenny?”

“They all came through just after you left,” Butters informed.

Cartman probed the crowd. Kenny and his family sat by the wall, huddled around their trays of joy and charity. A bunch of emotions settled in his chest like hot coals at he sight. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Kenny’s our friend, you can’t judge him—”

Cartman waved him off before he started proselytizing. “It just pisses me off they’re here in the first place.”

“Oh...” Butters unclenched his asshole a little bit. “Why?”

Kenny’s dad dug in with abandon, his mustache catching crumbs like flypaper. Kenny’s mom ate at a more conservative pace, too busy gauging her husband’s mood to pay attention to her kids. Kevin and Karen kept reaching across the table to slap at each other, whilst Kenny sat between them with his head down, ineffectually poking at everything _but_ the mashed potatoes.

“He’s only eating the potatoes,” Cartman noted.

“Okay? Stop staring. He’ll notice and—”

“I should’ve given him the potatoes. It should’ve been me, Leopold. Not you.”

“I don’t really know what that has to do with anything—”

“It has to do with everything.” Cartman’s head began to swim. He tried focusing on Kenny, but that just made the room turn into a kaleidoscope so he finally addressed Butters. “I am the potato man.”

“Sure, buddy. If you say so.”

“I’m _serious._ If you don’t believe me, I sucked Anthony’s cock.”

Butters’ eyes bugged out of his head. “What?”

Cartman tugged at the hem of his idiotic sweater. “It’s fucking hot.”

“No, no, no.” Butters grabbed his wrists. “You _what_?”

“Oh, cram it. You’re a fucking Puritan, Butters. Just like the pilgrims.”

“I didn’t want you to—to _prostitute_ yourself for weed!”

“You’re the one who set me up! I’m gonna start calling you pimp daddy.”

“Lower your voice,” Butters commanded.

“Agh—” Cartman tore out of Butters’ grasp. He ripped his sweater off, which left him in nothing but a cotton undershirt, and mussed his previously gelled-to-perfection hair. “Lemme breathe. I’m diabetic.”

Butters’ lip curled. He gave Cartman a once over, checking for psychosis, maybe. “I don’t even know where to begin with you.”

Cartman balled his sweater. “Neither does my psychiatrist.”

“You’re medicated?”

“It’s all part of my state-sanctioned punishment,” Cartman said. “I’m lucky I’m not under house arrest. Or sentenced to death by stoning.”

Butters lifted a righteous finger. “‘Let he who is without sin—’”

“If you don’t cut it out I’ll show _you_ sin—”

“Hey.”

Cartman and Butters abruptly shut their traps and turned, in tandem, to find Kenny glowering at them.

He thrust his platter out. “I want more mashed potatoes.”

“Uhmmm—” Butters plastered on a smile and shouldered past Cartman. “Sure! I’ll get it for you, pal—”

“That’s okay. Let Cartman do it.”

Cartman startled to attention. “Uh, alright.”

Just as he upended the ladle over Kenny’s tray, Kenny karate chopped his hand. His wrist spasmed and his fingers loosened. The ladle dropped to its doom, clattered on the floor, Kenny’s scuffed Chuck Taylors caught in the creamy crosshairs.

Butters gasped, Cartman winced, and Kenny looked up, mouth twisted in a grin. “That sucks. Guess you’ll have to get another one.”

“Guess so,” Cartman said.

Kenny turned to Butters, setting his tray on the table. “Can you watch my food?” He shook a wrinkled pack of red L&Ms retrieved from his parka. “I’ll be _right_ back.”

“O-okay,” Butters agreed, thoroughly confused.

Cartman shoved his sweater back on. “Me too.”

Kenny danced away. Cartman spun on his heel. He didn’t even bother with Bethel, sidestepping into the kitchen, and burst through the back door, remembering to utilize the cinderblock.

Kenny stood out of sight all the way by the fenced in dumpsters, puffing smoke signals towards the waning sun. Cartman trudged through salty slush and forced the slumped corral open. Kenny sat on an upturned crate, ensconced by his parka, an orange larva in metamorphosis.

“What the fuck do you want?” Cartman asked.

“What the fuck do _you_ want?” Kenny countered. “I saw you staring at me.”

“Yeah, well,” Cartman curled his sleeves over his hands; the temperature was a lot harder to ignore when he didn’t have a dick in his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Kenny shrugged uncomfortably. “I come every year.”

Cartman leaned against the dumpster, stuck his legs out so the heel of his loafers brushed the toes of Kenny’s sneakers. “Butters said that.”

“Why are _you_ here?”

“To atone for my sins, supposedly. Can I bum a smoke?”

“Not for free.”

“I already gave another guy ten bucks and a blowjob for a joint. No joke.”

Kenny stared at him for a long moment. “You really did, huh?”

Now Cartman jostled his shoulders. “Figured I oughta keep _some_ Thanksgiving tradition alive, since I wasn’t going to Nebraska.”

Kenny chuffed on an exhale, unable to speak till the resultant coughing fit passed. “The hell does that mean? You get diddled by your uncle?”

“My cousin,” Cartman corrected. “We’re a whole family of diddlers. It’s pretty bad.”

“Well, don’t diddle me next.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Sit down, already,” Kenny besieged, sick of the diddle talk. He passed a cigarette once Cartman complied.

They sat in a semi-agreeable silence for a bit. Semi-agreeable due to the fact it was cold and wet. Winter’s premature darkness steadily overtook the sky. Butters would be looking for them soon. Or, if not, Kenny’s family, or Cartman’s mom. There was always some other place to be, especially during the holidays. If Cartman had it his way, him and Kenny would camp out in this exact spot till spring’s first thaw.

Kenny lit another smoke. Cartman’s smoldered half-finished. L&Ms always went down rough and scratchy like a cheap hooker. They were all Kenny’s brother could afford, who then sold them to Kenny at an upcharge. Kenny was paying Marlboro prices for L&Ms. The economics of poverty in a nutshell. Classic.

The nicotine buzz mixed with Cartman’s high and made him hyper aware of the fact that the crate he perched upon was branding hatch marks into his ass. He lowered into the gravel to give his butt some relief, ambivalent towards the puddle of garbage juice which soaked into the seat of his corduroys. This change in position offered another inch of proximity in regards to Kenny, who shifted to accommodate, their sides touching, their feet knocking, cigarette ash blowing into one another’s laps.

“Why were you staring at me?” Kenny asked again.

Cartman didn’t have the heart to look up. “I already told you, I was surprised. That’s all.”

“Seriously? You think we can afford our own turkey? C’mon, man.”

Cartman wiped his nose on his shoulder. Some snot transferred onto the sleeve of Kenny’s parka. Kenny didn’t blow a gasket over it, so Cartman took a chance and rested his temple there, his head spinning again. “Tegridy’s no joke.”

Kenny allowed the detour. “You’re such a whore, dude.”

“ _You’re_ the whore.”

“I might be a slut, but I’m not a whore,” Kenny said. “There’s a difference. I fuck cuz I like it. You do it for something.”

Cartman couldn’t argue that. “Fred made me pull out my dick for an extra slice of pie, once.”

Kenny twisted an incredulous look at him. “Are you all fucked up about it?”

“I guess I’m just glad I got arrested,” Cartman admitted.

“Have you ever told anybody?”

“No.”

“Butters, uh—” Kenny reddened when Cartman’s gaze snapped up. “You can’t tell nobody I told you, alright? Least of all _him_. But, he, well. His uncle,” Kenny hastily concluded. “He’s a creep, I guess. That’s all I’ll say.”

“So, what?” Cartman asked. “You want to start a support group?”

“I’m just _saying._ You’re not the only one.”

“I’d rather cut off my nuts than discuss anything of importance with Leopold.”

“Okay, fine. Forget about it.”

Kenny sat forward and snubbed his cigarette out. Cartman flopped over, caught himself on his elbow. “Ey—”

“I just think it’s funny,” Kenny said, indiscernible now from Cartman’s vantage point. “You’re judging _my_ Thanksgiving when yours is even more fucked up.”

Cartman sat up after him. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Then why the hell did you keep _looking_ at me?”

“Because—it pissed me off!”

“That makes no fucking sense!”

“I wasn’t pissed at _you._ I’m pissed at the whole _operation_. This entire holiday sucks ass!”

Kenny sighed and scratched a hand through his hair, causing his hood to fall to his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said. A bruise colored the corner of his brow.

“I can’t stand it,” Cartman said. “I can’t stand any of it. Especially listening to Butters all day. And my mom. I’m going nuts. That’s why I blew the guy.”

“You shouldn’t of,” Kenny said. “You gotta quit whoring yourself out like that.”

“How would you know whether I whore myself out or not?”

“You basically confessed to it. Anyway, how else did you get off so easy, huh?”

Cartman pursed his lips. “Listen, Kenny—”

“You let your parole officer diddle you. Didn’t you?”

Cartman scrambled onto his knees and grappled Kenny’s parka. “Shut the hell up, asshole—”

Kenny flopped around limp and flaccid, but his eyes were rock hard. Scrutinizing. “You _did._ I knew it! There’s no other way—”

Cartman’s fist snapped out before either of them knew what happened. Kenny smacked into the corral and slid down into the gravel, blood trickling from his lip.

Cartman kneeled above him, chest heaving. “I _told_ you to shut up!”

“Goddamn it,” Kenny groaned. He rose onto his palms and spat a mouthful of blood. “Y’knocked my tooth loose!”

“I _told_ you,” Cartman repeated. “If you just listened to me—”

“Goddamn it,” Kenny said again. He clambered into Cartman’s lap and knocked his head back, mouth agape. “How’s it? Pretty bad?”

Cartman’s nervous rage flipped into mortification. He pressed his back against the dumpster, but Kenny persisted, hands looking for purchase and landing on his crotch. “I dunno. I’m not a dentist—”

“Aw, fuck it.” Kenny braced his hand on Cartman’s dick and used his other to dig around his mouth. Spit and blood coalesced down his wrist. He finally found the loose tooth and yanked it out, face scrunched in pain.

“Kenny—”

“I had a cavity anyway. Look.” Kenny rolled the tooth in his palm and held it under Cartman’s nose. It was all nasty looking, yellow but going brown in the middle. “See? You did me a favor.”

Cartman flattened his palms on his thighs, otherwise he’d start groping Kenny in concern, or something. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. Okay?”

“I deserved it,” Kenny shrugged. He pocketed his tooth, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You’re not a whore, alright?”

“I am, though,” Cartman grabbed Kenny’s hip, impressing the truth physically, “I let practically the whole police department have a piece of me. You were right.”

Kenny draped his arm over Cartman’s shoulder. “That sucks. That’s really—” He leant to the side and coughed another splattering of blood, then righted himself again. “You just can’t help it, huh?”

Cartman shook his head.

“Poor kid.”

“Kenny,” Cartman mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“You’re kinda—you’re sitting on my junk.”

“Oh,” Kenny said. Like he had no idea. He lifted his hips. “Is it freaking you out, or?”

“Uhh.”

“I’m not Fred. But, hey. It’s Thanksgiving.”

Cartman’s nostrils flared. He slipped his hands under Kenny’s parka. He could almost fit Kenny’s entire ribcage in both hands. “You need to eat more.”

“You need to stop sucking off weirdos,” Kenny fired back.

“Come to my place,” Cartman blurted.

Kenny blinked. “Huh?”

“My mother’s beside herself. She doesn’t have any mouths to feed.”

“I’m not super hungry,” Kenny smirked. “But I could use my mouth for something else.”

Cartman squeezed his sides. “That wasn’t really where I was going with that.”

“I’m not gonna diddle you without reparations.”

Cartman’s will softened in proportion to his hardening cock. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, fine.”

Kenny bent forward and nosed his jaw. “Happy Thanksgiving, man.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Cartman returned.

**Author's Note:**

> for last year's thanksgiving fun, see: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16382912


End file.
